


Hotel California

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Series: Tol Rider Barry 'verse [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Dragons, Dragons are Scary, Gen, Horror, Soul Bond, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 22:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7287310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that tragedy is the sire of dragons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Eggs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [languageismymistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/languageismymistress/gifts).



> BEHOLD! Small Dragon Barry's horrific counterpart!
> 
> SURPRISE BAE! This is what I was talking about. I dedicate this to you because, HEY! You deserve to have things dedicated to you, and you did inspire Small Dragon Barry's beginning, and I have started this series also hoping that you personally enjoy it.
> 
> And of course I hope other readers enjoy this too!! Sorry if this first chapter's exposition-heavy. You know how it is with world building. Oh, and kudos to anyone who got the song reference in the title ;D

They say that tragedy is the sire of dragons. This superstition only grows when people claim to find dragon eggs after major disasters in human history. Fascinated with science, Barry didn’t believe it; after all, where were dragons in disasters that didn’t harm humans? What about oil spills killing who knows how many sea creatures, or a great extinction?

Yet, when a patient curses Dr. Henry Allen, taking his mind and killing his wife, his son finds two dragon eggs in the backyard.

Barry had been hiding in the bushes, both hands pressing against his mouth as his mother’s screams rang over the blood in his ears. Seemingly out of nowhere, he looked over and there they were. As if the Allen family’s horror was a siren’s call.

 Barry froze, curled in a tight ball not a foot from them. On the left, a perfect sphere of an egg, metallic grey covered with a thin grid of electric blue. On the right, a sharp oval, striking yellow running with sporadic lightning strike spirals, like fireworks. They leaned on each other, magic swirling thick where they touched, a miasma that clogged Barry’s nose.

The child shook with anger. “Why?” he hissed, “Why did you come _here_? Why’d you do that?”

The only answer he got was his father shoving the back door open and shouting his name. At this point, Henry was covered in Nora’s blood, stray bits of her brain still sticking to the sides of his mouth. His shoulders heaved with excited pants, fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of his kitchen knife.

Frightened, Barry forgot all about his anger for a moment. Acting purely on instinct, he dove behind the eggs—both easily half his size—and cowered from the mad killer he couldn’t see as the same man who helped him with his homework and kissed Nora before work.

Barry doesn’t remember much after that. There was warmth, tingles, and suddenly he was standing over Henry’s unconscious body with the police on the phone. The doctor who looked after him said he repressed it. Either way, Henry was locked up, and Barry was left an orphan at eleven years old.

No one said a thing about the dragon eggs, but Barry knew he’d either have to abandon them altogether or look after them himself. Although still bitterly angry, he knew he owed something to these dragons: they shielded him when he needed better cover from Henry. And, though he didn’t want to admit it, they were the last vestiges of that house he could have; everything else, due to the curse over Henry, were burned.

Joe and Iris West adopted him. Both were completely, wonderfully human. The rest, as they say, is history.

It’s been fifteen years since then. Barry’s finally back in Central City, having completed all his desired degrees and ready to apply to the CCPD as a CSI in their taskforce against magical crimes. Joe’s got him all set up for the interview with Captain Singh and he’s got his application ready to go.

His future is open before him. Which is how Barry can finally load those eggs into a wad of blankets and a duffle bag and get them out of his life.

Recently, a stronghold was built in the mountains about forty-five minutes’ drive from Central. Riders dwell there—the only ones in the country, or so people say. Certainly dragon riders haven’t appeared in the last few centuries at least, so Barry’s inclined to believe that.

Not much is known about them or their dragons. Their dragons are big, they’re criminals, and they cause terror; that’s all everyone needs. Still, Barry doesn’t have a choice. While the eggs haven’t even twitched in the last fifteen years, there’s not predicting if and when that’ll change. With their kind, they’ll at least get proper care, and his debt to them will be fully repaid.

One thing about dragons that you _have_ to remember: always, _always_ pay your debts.

Despite their size, the eggs aren’t more than twenty pounds altogether. Barry’s more of a runner than a lifter, but he can carry that to the bus.

His interview isn’t until Monday, and it’s Friday now. Plenty of time to get to the outskirts, leave the eggs, and get home.

Should’ve known things would go wrong.

(~*~)

Barry reaches the base of the mountain Saturday morning, having spent the night in a nearby motel that’s all but deserted because of its proximity to dragons. After some climbing, Barry reaches a set of steps set into the mountainside.

Up above, an enormous dragon statue presides over the summit of his goal. It’s very, _very_ high up. Great.

“Okay,” Barry says to no one, “here we go.”

The stronghold itself is something magnificent and quite clearly dragon-made, what with the amount of detail and allotted time. Carved into the wide crevice between the two highest mountains is a courtyard of sorts, a wide circle that could easily fit those three dragons very comfortably. In its center stands a statue that, if Barry’s not mistaken, was stolen from Central’s Art Museum a few months ago. The smoothed floor of this courtyard is carved to look like cobblestones. The railing, on the other hand, is far more intricate: waist-high for an average human adult, with each post carved with thick stone spheres resting atop scepter-like poles. All of these poles have runes drawn into them, which Barry recognizes as the strongest form of selectively permeable wards, meaning it was only because he carried dragons with no ill intent that he was permitted to reach the top of the steps.

To the left and right of the courtyard, leading into the mountains themselves, are three doorways each. The middle is a towering archway that reminds Barry of _The Lord of the Rings_ dwarf mines in terms of size; they’re at least a few hundred feet tall, also carved stone and in Gothic structure, with a tympanum depicting a battle between winged dragons in full armor, set in a battle fought between human knights. The dragons have knights on their backs as well, both with swords raised and obnoxious plumes flying on an invisible gust of wind.

On either side of these grand archways are tinier, human sized ducts that, upon closer inspection, Barry sees only go about ten feet inside. Each one has a firepit sitting on expensive rugs that were undoubtedly stolen. A few furs litter the ground as well, probably skinned from the game dragons hunt. Each small archway has a square opening where the dragon-sized is curved, and they’re almost just as thick. Pretty handy for quick escapes during winter’s cold, Barry supposes.

Yet, for all of this, the stronghold is eerily still. Barry hears nothing but the mountain wind, despite not hearing anything about draconic activity since he got back from college.

Maybe that’s a good thing—riders are not considered fully human. They’re twisted by the bond they share with their beasts until something inside breaks and morphs into something else—something grotesque. Barry’s here to drop off some eggs, not die.

There’s nothing he can do about the stolen goods he sees; it’s not like the police are gonna storm a dragon stronghold. Instead, he lets out a quiet exhale and cautiously approaches the statue. Theseus and Medusa say nothing as he lowers his bag at the base of their combat.

Nothing happens. Not even a snarl.

 _Huh_. Maybe they’re hunting or something? There’s a big forest on the other side of these mountains…but Barry can see that forest from here, and there’s not a single disturbance among it.

Fear creeps up his back. If the dragons aren’t there, and they’re not out here…where are they?

Like a distracted idiot, Barry’s been looking anywhere but _up_.

And that thing he thought was a statue? Not a statue.

In broad daylight, this beast is blazing molten gold, almost blinding. Once it sees Barry knows it’s there, it rumbles in satisfaction and crouches as if to pounce. Although he can’t see much outside of its shine, Barry picks out a small human silhouette on the dragon’s back.

Suddenly, Barry is hearing his father’s voice.

 _“Barry…come on out, son! It’s alright now. I won’t hurt you, Barry. I_ promise _…”_

The dragon roars, shooting to the air. Barry whimpers.

_“It’s just Daddy, Slugger! Come on!”_

Barry blinks, and he’s on the ground, clutching his bag with his entire body like a baby to his favorite toy.

The dragon has once again fallen silent. Its wingbeats jar Barry’s bones, but it doesn’t move to break them.

With a strange-sounding growl, the creature lands. The resounding _thu-thud_ sounds like it could be enough to destroy the entire stronghold, but the stone holds fast. Hyperventilating, Barry stays on the ground, not knowing what else to do.

The dragon’s all the worse when cast in shadow, as Barry can now see it clearly. Its head alone is three times his size in height, jaw as wide as a two grown oak trees, coming to a beak-like point at the edge of the jowls. Along them are thin tendrils, like limp whiskers, four on each side. Its eyes are that of a chameleon’s, and both are focused directly on him just as its thing flexible ears are pricked towards him. Its fused lids are large enough so part of its sickly orange irises can be seen, but the pupils quickly dilate over them.

Spikes, sharp and swept back, jut from the back of its knees to its ankles. Its horns are as bronze as them, close together on its head and curving forward and up. Down its gold and bronze-speckled scales, Barry’s eye catches on the base of its wings—its third, fourth, fifth, and sixth sets of legs _are_ the wings: the third holds them together, while the rest make the wings’ three spines. The four pairs of talons flex in unison, but it’s soon apparent that only the third set of legs can bend; they fold the dragon’s wings, revealing a better view of its saddled back.

The saddle’s connected to its elaborate gold breastplate, whose round emblem is bordered by diamonds—how much have these creatures stolen, exactly?—with its centerpiece displaying an engraved battleax.

Mounted on this saddle is not a grotesque, less than human thing, but a beautiful woman.

Her dragon reaches around and sets her on the ground. “And what are you doing here, sweetie?” she croons, black stilettos clicking across the courtyard, “I’m assuming you’re not lost.”

There’s a gun strapped to her thigh holster. It’s unlike any weapon Barry’s ever seen—most likely magic.

“It’s impolite not to answer a lady.”

Barry looks up at her. She’s just released her hair from its bun; he watches, oddly mesmerized, as her pretty curls cascade past her shoulders.

Her smirk turns dangerous. “If I were you, I’d answer now. This is _our_ territory, after all.”

She removes her gloves, revealing long, sharp nails painted gold. The appearance makes her hands look like human talons.

At the sight of them, Barry finally finds his voice. “I-I just—I was trying to—to drop these off.” Slowly pulling away from his bag, “I. I didn’t have a place for them until—this,” he gestures to the stronghold.

The rider’s eyebrows raise in interest. “And you thought we would just take the eggs without a fuss? Very presumptuous of you.”

Barry’s stomach flips. The idea that the dragons wouldn’t want the eggs didn’t even occur to him; their population is so small, he thought they’d take them out of biological imperative if nothing else. Yet the rider and dragon both are peering at Barry’s bag with predatory hunger, as if they’d sooner eat the hatchlings than care for them.

“They are not ours,” the rider explains, voice hardening with animal aggression, “and we are not theirs.”

Careful not to make sudden movements, Barry pushes to his feet and wipes his hands on his jeans. Looking almost anywhere but the rider and dragon, he asks, “Well—I mean, can’t you form a bond? That can happen among birds and—”

The rider’s tone drips with venomous honey: “Dragons are not _birds_ , sweetheart.”

Her dragon snarls in agreement. Barry puts his hands up.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he says, “I-I was just trying to make an example, y’know. Sorry. I just don’t know what else to do, that’s all.”

The dragon’s chameleon tongue peeks out. Before Barry’s eyes, its scales take on a sheen of garnet red. At the same time, the rider’s eyes narrow.

“You would give your eggs to us after _you_ formed a bond with them?” she asks, anger at last freezing her voice.

Barry’s mouth drops. “What? No! I didn’t do that!”

Addressing her dragon, the rider surmises, “ _That’s_ what we sensed.” Then, to Barry, “Alright, baby, you’re cute enough. I’ll help you out.”

Before Barry can relax, the woman puts up her clawed index finger and explains, “We can’t take those eggs because they have claimed you, and you’ve accepted that claim. To give that away is unforgiveable.”

“But I can’t take care of _one_ dragon!” Barry blurts, “What am I supposed to do with two?!”

The rider smirks, “Well, why didn’t you just leave them where you found them?”

Barry spreads his hands, “Something—happened, when I was a kid, and I saw them next to me while I was hiding. They protected me, in a way. Dragons might be—” he glances at the actual dragon in front of him, “—uh—big, but…I felt like I owed them.”

The rider shakes her head, as if Barry is an adorable little child doing something ridiculous. “Oh sweetie, no. You never owed them—debts must have a verbal seal for dragons. Did you say that out loud?”

Oh. “Um. No?”

The rider makes a shooing gesture. “Then off you go. Have fun with your eggs when they hatch. Since I’m feeling generous, I’ll give you a tip: don’t struggle.”

“Wh-what? Hey, wait!”

Too late. Rider and dragon are walking through the archway. Once again, Barry is left alone with the eggs. Which are apparently _his_ eggs.

Awesome.

Barry sighs, “Guess I’ll just head back down, then. Got an interview Monday that’s not gonna prepare for itself.”

He has the worst luck.

(~*~)

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ¸ he has _the worst_ luck!

Nearly falling off his bed in the process, Barry stumbles towards his open closet, whispering, “No! No, no, no! Don’t do that! Why are you doing that?!”

For the oval egg, after fifteen years of silence picks _today_ of all days to start wriggling on its old hoodie nest. The only consolation Barry has is the other egg remaining still as ever, not that it makes him feel any better.

“Stop it!” Barry hisses, “Stop! Stay in there! Come on, you’ve stayed in there this whole time! I have an interview— _really_?”

The shell has broken at the top, revealing inky black talons curling out of a disgusting yellow paw. The hide is peppered with blood red lightning strikes, and it stretches over an entire body that claws its way from its egg with single-minded determination.

The hatchling’s spikes are all black. While its head is devoid of horns, tiny spikes dot the back of its neck, stopping just above its shoulders. Around its eyes are solid red circles, likewise red streaks stretching from the corners of its—holy shit it has _two mouths_.

Stacked on top of each other, larger on top of smaller, are the hatchling’s mouths. The smaller has sharper teeth while the larger puts up the deception of appearing harmless. They squeeze the eyes up its head, making them small and beady but no less striking blue.

Its legs are all the same length; the same goes for its wings—it has _four_ wings and _two_ mouths, is that normal for dragons?—while its tail looks like two tails twisted together, coming to a single, sharp point.

Not even in fairy tales has Barry ever seen a dragon like this.

“I…I mean, y-you can—you can do whatever you want,” he says, voice cracking, “I’m not, uh, I was just stressed, y’know? Got an interview in a few hours, and suddenly there’s a _dragon_ in my room, right?”

The hatchling regards him with an unreadable gaze. It’s definitely predatory.

Barry gulps. “L-look, I was told we uh, we had something? A bond? Yeah? Does-does that stop you from killing me _now_ , or did you decide to change your schedule?”

“You were going to leave me.”

Barry’s scared so bad he trips over his own feet. The dragon’s expression doesn’t change when he tumbles to the floor.

“You were going to _leave_ me,” it repeats. Its top mouth isn’t moving, but its nigh invisible bottom, so it almost looks like there’s a ventriloquist speaking for it instead. “Just because you were _afraid_. As if I haven’t given you everything of mine, as if I never protected you!”

It’s just before the hatchling pounces that Barry remembers the rider’s words: _Don’t struggle._

He still fights.

Man and dragon collide in a tangle of limbs, human cries, and draconic hisses. Not a second into the fray, blood is spilled, all Barry’s, until Barry gropes for the pocket knife in his bedside drawer as the hatchling claws at his legs. Then they’re both bleeding, coating the carpet and splattering Barry’s posters, books, and bed.

Barry soon realizes with growing dread that the hatchling isn’t attacking at random. The longer they swipe and claw at each other, the more often Barry feels those black talons slash his legs and chest. Even if by some miracle he wins this, he’ll most likely bleed out anyway.

The hatchling seems to pick up on his despair—Barry’s not surprised; it’s a _dragon_ —and jeers, “That’s right, Mr. Allen. If you want to leave me behind, I’ll just have to _make_ you stay. Hold still,” it teases.

All Barry remembers next is lightning eating his veins, originating from where the hatchling struck him most. It hurts, it burns, it—feels so— _good_ —


	2. Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unbeknownst to Barry, it's been nine months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's MUCH shorter. 
> 
> And side note: this series won't be featuring the insane, revenge-driven Eobard Thawne that CW portrays. Certainly he'll be possessive and shit, but that's 'cause he's a dragon. If you've ever read the fic On Bated Tooth and Claw, that's the characterization I'm going for here. We just have to get him and Barry bonded first before he can find some chill.

Next thing he knows, Barry’s flinging himself from an unfamiliar bed.

“Whoa, easy there, kid,” an unfamiliar voice, accompanied by a cold hand, presses him back down, “you’ve had quite a shock.”

Barry’s tongue feels heavy. “What—where—”

His vision clears on a man sitting at his bedside. The stranger’s eyes are a familiar bright blue in the low light coming from the oil lamp beside him, though Barry has to take a second to remember—and it really does only take a second, before the rider’s face appears in his mind. Then the man stands and his eyes turn green mixed with specks of brown.

“I think you can guess your answers,” he says, quiet and easy while at the same time mocking, “Welcome, _Barry_.”

Barry jolts. “How do you—”

The man turns, long navy riding coat cascading around his ankles. He hasn’t even removed his gloves yet; did he recently—?

Oh no.

As if on cue, the stranger turns to look at Barry’s face. The all-too dragonesque gleam in his eyes compliments his human smirk. The emblem stitched into the back of his coat is far more notorious than his actual face: a dragon of shimmering white ice swooping up into flight, gripping a snowflake in its talons as if to stop it from falling.

“Captain Cold,” Barry breathes.

Cold chuckles. It sounds like a rumble in his chest. “Yes, aren’t the police original?” as he leaves, he calls over his shoulder, “Take my sister’s advice this time, _Barry_.”

So they _are_ related. Barry’s not at all comforted by the prospect.

“Now then.”

Barry jumps. The chamber he’s in is pretty big for a human, enough that an adolescent dragon can easily hide in the shadows—for that is what that hatchling has become, seemingly overnight: it now stands a good twenty feet tall and twice as disturbing to look at.

“Do you have your answers?” it asks.

Fear tingles every pore of Barry’s skin. He tries not to show it on his face, but he’s almost certain he fails. “Yes,” he replies, “you—you took me to the stronghold. You—” he’s gonna be _sick_ , “claimed me.”

The dragon’s eyes narrow. It stalks towards him. “You claimed me first. Threw yourself into my protection, allowed me to touch your mind. Who do you think defended you from your father all those years ago?”

Barry’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb, Mr. Allen. You’re smarter than that. Your father was a grown man, cursed and mad; would a small child like you really have been able to overcome him without help?”

Panic buzzes under Barry’s skin.

“And,” the dragon adds, now looming directly over him, “whose bond do you think stayed that wretched dragon? Why else would you cling to eggs you constantly profess to fear and loathe?” it spits. “No, Barry. You have no right to leave me.”

Suddenly, everything seems to slow down.

Instead of moving at impossible speeds like before, the dragon shoves towards Barry at normal pace. Barry instinctively makes to dodge—

_“Take my sister’s advice this time.”_

_“Don’t struggle.”_

Barry squeezes his eyes shut. What else can he do?

The dragon snatches him up, growling in feral satisfaction as Barry forces himself to relax.

It doesn’t last when its talon penetrates his spine.

Barry screams as lightning devours him again.

The dragon’s voice is rolling thunder in his head: ‘What is my name?’

Something clashes in Barry’s head. His body seizes.

‘ _What_ is my name?’

Blood gushes from his nose and ears.

‘ _What is it_?’

This time, when the lightning bursts, Barry can hear its words.

His throat’s clenching with the rest of him, so he’s forced to think as loud and desperately as he can, ‘Eobard! It’s Eobard! _Stop_!’

A hurricane sweeps between them, destroying and taking and—combining.

This time, when Eobard speaks, his words resonate through Barry’s head too: “Now we can never be apart. Your power is my power. My speed, your speed.”

He shoves Barry back onto the bed. Barry can _feel_ his skin and bones repair themselves.

As he finally gives into a panic attack, the— _his_ dragon runs a slow nuzzle over his jack rabbit heart.

“Welcome to our new home, Barry,” Eobard hums, “and don’t worry. I kept our egg safe.”

Barry croaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why this fic is called Hotel California is because of this set of lyrics: "You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave."
> 
> Also, yes, the riders' slang for this stronghold is also Hotel California. That'll be touched on later, but I just wanted to tell you now.
> 
> So what do you think??

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
